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delay, of no interval interposed between that and our first waking thoughts.* Besides, there are shifts and devices, shabby and mortifying enough, but still available in case of need. How many expedients are there in this great city, time out of mind and times without number, resorted to by the dilapidated and thrifty speculator, to get through this grand difficulty without utter failure! One may dive into a cellar, and dine on boiled beef and carrots for tenpence, with the knives and folks chained to the table, and jostled by greasy elbows that seem to make such a precaution not unnecessary (hunger is proof against indignity !)-or one may contrive to part with a superfluous article of wearing apparel, and carry home a muttonchop and cook it in a garret; or one may drop in at a friend's at the dinner-hour, and be asked to stay or not; or one may walk out and take a turn in the Park, about the time, and return home to tea, so as at least to avoid the sting of the evil—the appearance of not having dined. You then have the laugh on your side, having deceived the gossips, and can submit to the want of a sumptuous repast without murmuring,
In Scotland, it seems, the draught of ale or whiskey with which you commence the day, is emphatically called “taking your morning.”
having saved your pride, and made a virtue of necessity. I say all this may be done by a man without a family (for what business has a man without money with one ?—See English Malthus and Scotch Macculloch-and it is only my intention here to bring forward such instances of the want of money as are tolerable both in theory and practice. I once lived on coffee (as an experiment) for a fortnight together, while I was finishing the copy of a half-length portrait of a Manchester manufacturer, who died worth a plum. I rather slurred over the coat, which was a reddish brown, “ of formal cut,” to receive my five guineas, with which I went to market myself, and dined on sausages and mashed potatoes, and while they were getting ready, and I could hear them hissing in the pan, read a volume of Gil Blas,' containing the account of the fair Aurora. This was in the days of my youth. Gentle reader, do not smile! Neither Monsieur de Very, nor Louis XVIII, over an oyster-pâté, nor Apicius himself, ever understood the meaning of the word luxury, better than I did at that moment! If the want of money has its drawbacks and disadvantages, it is not without its contrasts and counterbalancing effects, for which I fear
nothing else can make us amends. Amelia's hashed inutton is immortal ; and there is something amusing, though carried to excess and caricature (which is very unusual with the author) in the contrivance of old Caleb, in “The Bride of Lammermuir,” for raising the wind at breakfast, dinner, and supper-time. I recollect a ludicrous instance of a disappointment in a dinner which happened to a person of my acquaintance some years ago. He was not only poor but a very poor creature, as will be imagined
His wife had laid by fourpence (their whole remaining stock) to pay for the baking of a shoulder of mutton and potatoes, which they had in the house, and on her return home from some errand, she found he had expended it in purchasing a new string for a guitar. On this occasion a witty friend quoted the lines from Milton :
“ And ever against eating cares,
Wrap me in soft Lydian airs!"
Defoe, in his “Life of Colonel Jack,' gives a striking picture of his young beggarly hero sitting with his companion for the first time in his life at a three-penny ordinary, and the delight with which he relished the hot smoking
soup, and the airs with which he called about him—" and every time,” he says,
“we called for bread, or beer, or whatever it might be, the waiter answered, coming, gentlemen, coming;' and this delighted me more than all the rest !" It was about this time, as the same pithy author expresses it, “the Colonel took upon him to wear a shirt !” Nothing can be finer than the whole of the feeling conveyed in the commencement of this novel, about wealth and finery from the immediate contrast of privation and poverty. One would think it a labour, like the Tower of Babel, to build up a beau and a fine gentleman about town. The little vagabond's admiration of the old man at the banking-house, who sits surrounded by heaps of gold as if it were a dream or poetic vision, and his own eager anxious visits, day by day, to the hoard he had deposited in the hollow tree, are in the very foremost style of truth and nature. See the same intense feeling expressed in Luke's address to his riches, in the City Madam,' and in the extraordinary raptures of the Spanish Rogue' in contemplating and hugging his ingots of
pure gold and Spanish pieces of eight: to which Mr Lamb has referred in excuse for the rhapsodies of some of our elder poets on this subject, which to our present more refined and
tamer apprehensions sound like blasphemy.* In earlier times, before the diffusion of luxury, of knowledge, and other sources of enjoyment had become common, and acted as a diversion to the cravings of avarice, the passionate admiration, the idolatry, the hunger and thirst of wealth and all its precious symbols, was a kind of madness or hallucination, and Mammon was truly worshipped as a god !
It is among the miseries of the want of money, not to be able to pay your reckoning at an inn-or, if you have just enough to do that, to have nothing left for the waiter ;-to be. stopped at a turnpike gate, and forced to turn back ;--not to venture to call a hackney-coach in a shower of rain—(when you have only one shilling left yourself, it is a bore to have it taken out of your pocket by a friend, who comes into your house eating peaches in a hot summer's-day, and desiring you to pay for the coach in which he visits you) ;--not to be able to purchase a lottery-ticket, by which you might make your fortune, and get out of all your difficulties ;-or to find a letter lying for you at a country post-office, and not to have money
your pocket to free it, and be obliged Shylock's lamentation over the loss of “his daughter and his ducats,” is another case in point.